The Highest Bidder
by AlissonLoon
Summary: Cassana is the daughter of the exiled Jorah Mormont and Lynesse Hightower. A childhood of ever-changing castles, expectations, and teachers has taught her that court is only a collage of masquerades, and those with the most masks win. When Jaime Lannister is given Cassana's hand for his father's high bid, the masked ball goes up in the same flames that engulf the Iron Throne.
1. Prologue

**CASSANA**

 _King's Landing, two days after the Battle of the Blackwater_

I held my head high and kept my back straight— _straight_ as Grandfather would insist. When I had arrived at Hightower, I slouched whenever I was without bow and arrow. Grandfather washed that bit of Aunt Maege out of me.

"Cassana, look at me," Grandfather drew my eyes back to him. "Tywin Lannister has proposed a betrothal between you and his son, Tyrion—"

"The Imp?" I clarified, feeling my eyes blink slowly and my jaw drop.

"Yes, his second son. I don't believe I'll permit it. Lord Mace doesn't think I should either, but it would do great things for the wealth of the house."

"House Hightower doesn't need another copper penny! I will not marry the Imp, Grandfather," I insisted petulantly.

"You're not one to evaluate the economic status of the house, little miss!" He scolded. "We _could_ use the stability, but I won't have you made the laughingstock of Westeros. Such beauty should not ever go to waste; your mother would've killed me for marrying _you_ off to a half-man. I bet she thought you should be married to the Warrior himself."

I didn't like it when Grandfather spoke as though my mother were dead. She was alive somewhere, in some land—some land far to the east.

"I agree," I replied stoically.

"But I could use the engagement to broker a betrothal between you and Prince Tommen."

I held my tongue, watching the slight machinations inside my grandfather's head twist and twirl. Tommen was seven years my junior; he was eight. If we were betrothed the wedding would be pushed off until he was at least thirteen, but surely Grandfather would argue I would be somewhat wasted on those five empty years.

"Though, I'd say your flower would have wilted by then… to a degree," he said accordingly—although with much more eloquence.

"Perhaps I should go back to Highgarden—"

"You will _not_ go back to Highgarden, Cassana. You'll learn to call King's Landing home; the same flowers and frivolity grow here, just in a different color."

I hesitated before speaking again, but could not keep my mouth closed: "But Aunt Alerie thinks cousin Garlan and I would make a very lovely couple."

"My daughter does not make marital decisions for neither her son nor her niece," he muttered beneath his breath. He took my hand suddenly, pulling me toward the wash basin. It was full of clean water, reflecting silver sheens of sunlight and our faces hovering above. "Cassana, you are as beautiful as the sun that lights the hopes of men, and as beautiful as the moon that puts those hopes to sleep. Do not waste your beauty on Highgarden when it can win you half the world."

I reluctantly looked into the wash basin. Beneath us were two distorted figures, curving and bending unnaturally on the tremulous surface of the water. "If this is true, why is it Margaery who's marrying King Joffrey?"

Grandfather sighed, looking away from the basin and out past the white-stone balcony. "Because I married my last daughter to a Mormont, and my first to a Tyrell," he said with regret. He always missed my mother, and was always contrite about his decision to marry her to the Lord of Bear Island. Her beauty was allegedly unparalleled—if only King Robert had seen her, Grandfather would say.

I caught him and smiled widely. "What about Aunt Malora?"

Grandfather exhaled then chuckled, looking at me with a relieving lightness. "That bat? Please, that one is not my daughter," he said and we both laughed loudly. No one ever wanted to take credit for the Mad Maiden.

"As batty as she is, I miss her," I said quietly. It had been several years since I'd last seen Aunt Malora, but I could still vividly remember the color of her hair—the red of wild corn poppies beneath the summer sun.

Grandfather gave a smile cut in half: "You only miss all of the spells she filled your head with. If I hadn't let you study with her, the bookworm in your skull would have eaten the entirety of your brain by now."

I smiled again. Grandfather could be as harsh as he could be sweet.

"Now go, sweet. Explore and make friends—choose them by the weight of their pockets."

"Yes, Grandfather," I said and turned. Grandfather's footman, Garrat, opened the entrance to the chambers. As I stepped out, I looked to my left down the hall. On the wall opposite slots of sunlight streamed in between stone pillars, and far-reaching ferns from the courtyard below tickled the edges of the pillars. A young woman with red hair walked several doors down from me.

"Lady Sansa?" I announced, seeing if the figure would respond to the name. The guards flanking her right and left turned as she did. A string of the sun reached toward her face and transformed her blue eyes into cerulean pools beneath a gentle moon.

I walked toward her with a spring in my step. Sansa was a polite noblewoman who grew comfortable after several ladylike giggles and the clasp of dainty hands. I curtsied when I approached her; House Stark was notably superior to both House Mormont and House Hightower, though not wealthier than the latter.

"My name is Cassana, my lady, of House Hightower," I introduced myself.

"Oh—you're Margaery's cousin, aren't you?" She asked with a slight smile. It was not a look of happiness, but of formality. Sansa took several minutes to crack.

"Yes, Lady Alerie Tyrell and my mother are sisters."

"Yes, you're Lynesse's daughter. I saw you after the Battle of the Blackwater in the Great Hall. You're dress was so lovely," she complimented.

"Thank you, I made it myself," I smiled. It was a lie, but a harmless one. I had heard Sansa loved sewing and embroidery dearly.

"Oh, you make your own dresses? So do I!" She grinned wholeheartedly. "Perhaps we should make each other dresses!"

"A lovely idea, my lady."

"You're not my handmaiden; call me Sansa, as I should call you Cassana," she said and held out her slender forearm. "Would you like to join me for a walk in the Garden? My septa tells me the dianthuses have just begun to bloom."

"I would be delighted!" I exclaimed brightly and softly grasped her arm.

"Guards, would you please invite Lady Desmera to meet Cassana and I in the gardens? She told me she wanted to see the dianthuses too," Sansa requested than looked at me. "You'll just love Desmera—she is so lovely. She knows the names of all the flowers in the gardens."

"What talent!" I cried. "And Desmera is of House…?"

"House Redwyne. Lady Olenna, her grandmother, brought her for Margaery and Joffrey's wedding."

House Redwyne controlled the Arbor and made the greatest wine in the world. _Choose friends by the weight of their pockets,_ I reminded myself. A lady of House Redwyne would make a wonderful, profitable companion.

* * *

 _Several months later_

Sansa had been quite silent all dinner. She drank more wine than she usually did, but not enough to warp her mind—or more so, warp the reality she was now facing. Shae refilled Sansa's glass and Sansa wouldn't even look at her. I followed Sansa's gaze out to Blackwater Rush, where the moon only kissed the steady waves; they looked like fragile pearls sewn onto a widow's mantle.

"Would you like more pheasant, my lady?" Shae asked. I looked to Sansa's full plate; another lobe of pheasant would cause the sprouts on her plate to spill onto the tablecloth.

"No thank you," she said quietly. I reached for her pale, delicate hand on the table. When I grasped it, she looked at me tentatively—as though I could also deliver horrific news.

"Sansa, you must eat. Is it so appalling to be marrying a kind, thoughtful, and clever man?"

She scowled. "It is so appalling to be marrying _the Imp,_ Cassana. I'll be mocked from Flea Bottom to Castle Rock."

"Yes. And Queen Cersei is marrying Ser Daisy, and Margaery is marrying Joffrey the Illborn. Noble ladies do not get what they want."

"Well I wanted Loras, but the Queen swiped him up with her greedy little hands! She gets what she wants!" She cried.

After spending many years with Loras, I could be sure that Sansa was lucky to not be marrying Loras. No feminine beauty could ever satisfy him.

I too had whined when I heard of a potential betrothal between Tyrion and I, but then I had not been exposed to his nature. I found I quite enjoyed his quick intellect and radiant perspective on matters; he was one of the few people who could see past every front I built. It also felt necessary to defend him in front of Shae. Tyrion knew my secrets as well as I knew his.

"Sansa, Tyrion will never mistreat you the way Joffrey would have," I spoke sternly. "Or the way Joffrey _did_ treat you."

I reached into my pocket and withdrew a folded piece of worn script. "What is that?" Sansa asked.

I kept my eyes on the fine writing. "It's from my grandfather. He says I should return home soon; there's nothing for me in the capital. I think he plans to marry me to my cousin Garlan."

"No, Cassana, you cannot leave me now! I need you most desperately in the upcoming weeks!" Sansa exclaimed.

"Sansa, we'll always be with one another in our hearts," I patted over my heart. I could feel Sansa's fine embroidery on my garments; I had actually quite liked the dress she'd made me. "You'll come to my wedding, and when the Lannisters try and drag you back to this horrid place I will refuse to release your hand! You will stay in Highgarden—away from the king, away from the capital, and away from the Lannisters."

Sansa's face finally broke into a smile. She took my hand just as I had taken hers. "You will be my rescuer, Cassana. Will I like Highgarden?"

I grinned and remembered: "When I first arrived in King's Landing, my grandfather once told me that the same flowers and frivolity that grew in Highgarden grew in King's Landing, but just in a different color," I looked at the ivy climbing the bust of a lady that sat in the open window. "But he was wrong; they're not as similar as he said. There are bees in Highgarden, and there are wasps here. There are garden snakes between the weeds in Highgarden, but here there are basilisks waiting to bite. Gooseberries grow by the bushel in Highgarden, and in King's Landing you can only pluck the berries of nightshade.

"In Highgarden there is no fear; the people are happy, and their joy does not grow on hidden motives and the backs of others. You will love Highgarden."

The smile on Sansa's face was perhaps the most pure smile I had ever seen in my life. For once, I felt truly there; I felt I had truly made someone happy.

"Then I cannot wait," she spoke.

A knock on the door interrupted the safety and joy Sansa and I had built. It crumpled.

"Who is it?" Sansa asked.

"It's me!" Desmera shouted from the other side of the door. Shae went to open the door; we had been expecting Desmera for the latter half of the meal.

"Is your grandmother well, Desmera?" Sansa asked. Desmera had come from evening tea with Lady Olenna.

"Splendid. You would not believe what I heard from Margaery today! It is so shocking!"

"What is it?" I asked. Desmera sat down beside Sansa and busied her hands with fruit. She always busied her hands when she was excited.

"Ser Jaime has returned to King's Landing! And with only one hand!"


	2. The Girls from the Garden

**Hello everyone, I hope you're enjoying the story so far! I just wanted to let you know that _yes_ I played with the timeline a little bit in order to make Cassana a relatively average age for marriage (at least by Westerosi standards). I also wanted to let everyone know that the next chapter is Jaime and Cassana's wedding, and it will most-likely include the wedding night, which will be mature. Also if you feel like this is moving fast, I do too! But marriages almost always move quickly in Westeros (think of Edmure and Roslin Tully!), and Cassana and Jaime's lack of familiarity is an element of their relationship that will become a major part of the story as a whole! Please comment, follow, and favorite if you wish—it will motivate me to update faster! ENJOY!**

* * *

 **JAIME**

 _King's Landing, days after his return_

Jaime's time in King's Landing had possibly been worse—in its own way—than imprisonment had been. For starters, he had one less hand; he was no longer considered an adequate knight, especially not an adequate Kingsguard, and most importantly was not an even conceivable option for Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Cersei could not look at him without a sour taste budding in her mouth. And his father, Tywin, had called him into his chambers for a discussion most-likely about his significantly lessened importance to the Kingsguard.

Jaime took his time getting to the Tower of the Hand—Tywin's new place of residence ever since the Battle of the Blackwater. He walked through the Royal Gardens—contemplating his newborn failure at the hands of the late Robb Stark and sexual frustration at the hands of his dear sister.

A flock of women in pastel dresses crowded around several beds of flowers—clamoring over butterflies and water lilies. Surely his father would insist he soon take a wife and further the family line—yet, Jaime couldn't find himself able to call any of these ladies _women._ He was quite sure they all consisted of the same flesh and brain and heart; what made them different was only the tapestries the gods had thrown over their fleshy silhouettes. That one had blonde hair, and this one had orange hair—that one had a large bosom, this one had long legs. This whirlpool of thoughts clogged his most rudimentary and most masculine operation: could he ever find himself aroused by a single one of these women? They were so horrifically ordinary.

What mattered most to him about women was what was beneath the tapestry and inside the pale skull. Most had rocks—lumps of coal, perhaps a slide of granite or marble here and there. But _Cersei—_ in that beautiful skull was a glittering ruby. When the sun passed through her eyes and hit one facet of the ruby, it came out all the other facets in a million different colors. Her mind was extraordinary, and he loved her most of all for it.

In the distance an old woman with a pale blue headdress looked at an array of marigolds that grew close to her feet. It was Lady Olenna Tyrell, Jaime recognized. On the woman's arm was a willowy nymph of a woman; her bronze hair fell directly to the very slight slope of her hips, minimally done. She looked ahead absentmindedly whilst Lady Olenna studied the flowers.

Jaime hoped to avoid them both but he was caught: "Ser Jaime!"

He turned to look at the two and pretended he had not been looking at them moments earlier. He grinned to the slightest degree and greeted her: "Lady Olenna."

The woman approached and pulled the younger lady with her. Jaime saw the other woman was beautiful, but he found beauty had little effect on him nowadays.

"This is my granddaughter, Lady Cassana Hightower," Lady Olenna introduced. "Well, in essence. She is the niece of my daughter-in-law, but we are quite close."

Jaime nodded his head toward the younger girl. She seemed rather quiet. Her eyes were a very pale shade of green; not brilliant and glittering like Cersei's, they were delicate and distant, like a clover on a misty day.

"How are you, Lady Olenna and Lady Cassana?"

"Quite splendid, and you Ser Jaime?"

"I've been better," he responded.

"I assume your dissatisfaction is a result of your lost extremity," Olenna spoke, candid as ever. "But you've got that glorious, golden creation as a replacement. Might I see it? I've heard quite a lot about it."

Jaime sighed and squinted, extending his hand for the onlookers to study. "I wouldn't call it glorious; it's quite cumbersome."

Lady Cassana's eyes were focused elsewhere. _Is this girl dull in the head?_ Jaime asked himself. But she did say: "Why bother with a metal hand when you could put something of use there? You've lost your sword hand, so why not fashion the stump with a blade?"

Jaime laughed very lightly under his breath. He figured she made a good point.

"Please excuse her; she's spent the last few years casting spells and brewing potions with her witch of an aunt. She's too clever for her own good."

"Is that so?" Jaime inquired.

"How much more pleasant I would be if I'd spent those years pricking my fingers whilst embroidering and weeping over the beauty of the Tyrell roses?"

Both Jaime and Olenna laughed. "You're my favorite, little cub. Now excuse us, Ser Jaime—we've mindless garden-gazing to do. Proceed with your more important agenda," Olenna smiled and pulled Cassana on her way.

Jaime figured the Lady Hightower had more in her skull than a rock. Her beauty might have meant something to him now. He liked her heart-shaped face and her dark, arched brows. She might have been very young, but the pale swell of her breasts and her narrow waist rung his bell of sexual frustration.

 _She might be attractive but she's no Cersei_ , Jaime reminded himself.

He made way for the Tower of the Hand. The entrance was guarded by soldiers who nodded respectfully when Jaime approached. They opened the doors for him so he was faced with the beginning of the spiral staircase that ascended to the top chamber. He temporarily pitied his father for the march often required of him, but realized his father probably deserved such a hike.

Jaime came to the conclusion that he would probably never return to his former physical state when he reached the top of the staircase. Imprisonment had weakened his body and rendered it skeletal at points; he was still recovering, but he didn't think he'd ever completely recover.

"Father," Jaime greeted when he made it past the two soldiers standing at the entrance to Tywin's chambers.

"Jaime," Tywin greeted in return. "Has your return treated you well?"

"Better than imprisonment ever did," Jaime approached the mahogany table his father sat at. In spite of the chaotic collection of scrolls, books, and letters Tywin had on his desk, it never managed to look disorganized. Maybe it was the way his father looked at the objects on his desk—like he owned them. But Jaime supposed that was how Tywin looked at everything.

"You requested my presence," Jaime addressed the cause for Tywin's calling.

Tywin stood and walked toward the chest that on the floor beneath the nearest window. "I've had something made for you."

"What is it?" Jaime asked with curiosity. His father's gifts were always extraordinary; even when Jaime was a boy he was always ecstatic whenever Tywin walked into his room with a present in his hands.

Tywin unfastened the brass clasps on the side of the chest and opened it. Inside was folded indigo silk. With some effort, Tywin carried the possessions of the chest out and onto his desk. He gestured with his head, urging Jaime to unwrap the present himself.

Swaddled in the silk was one of the finest blades Jaime had ever seen in his life. Its hilt was golden and laden with ruby, garnet, peridot, sapphire, and topaz. The metal of the sword was identifiable—Valyrian steel. _How did father come across this?_ Jaime asked himself.

"Well go ahead, pick it up," Tywin said.

Jaime picked it up gently and wrapped his hand around the hilt—a perfect fit. It was at moments like these he wished he still had his right hand the most.

"Magnificent," he said, and Tywin agreed with a hum. "Looks fresh-forged."

"It is," Tywin informed him.

"No one's made a Valyrian steel sword since the Doom of Valyria," Jaime said, as though reminding his father. He waited for his father to respond.

"There are three living smiths who know how to rework Valyrian steel. The finest of them was in Volantis, and he came here to King's Landing at my invitation."

"Where did you get this much Valyrian steel?"

"From someone who no longer had need of it."

Jaime smirked at his father, knowing the secrets language that hid behind Tywin's simple words. "You've wanted a sword like this in the family for a long time."

"And now we have two."

"Two?"

"The original weapon was absurdly large. It was plenty of steel for two swords."

"Well thank you; it's glorious," Jaime said and prepared to slide the sword into the sheath it had been wrapped next to. With his hardly-functioning left hand, he embarrassingly struggled to get the sword in. He was a crippled imbecile.

"You're going to have to train your left hand," Tywin acknowledged the misfortune that had befallen Jaime.

With hope, Jaime responded: "Any decent swordsman knows how to use both hands."

"You'll never be as good," Tywin responded.

"No," Jaime said reluctantly, "but as long as I'm better than everyone else, I suppose it doesn't matter."

"You can't serve in the Kingsguard with one hand," Tywin finally stated. Jaime had been waiting for this truth to be spoken allowed.

"Where's that written? I can and I will," Jaime resisted reality. He couldn't imagine any life aside the one he was living. "The Kingsguard Oath is for life."

"The war is over. The king is safe—"

"The king is never safe. How many people in this city alone would love to see Joffrey's head on a pike?"

"Other knights protected the king while you were being held prisoner. They will continue to do so when you go home."

"Home?" Jaime questioned with furrowed blonde brows.

"You'll return to Casterly Rock and rule in my stead. You'll renounce your oath and take a wife back home with you."

" _You_ are the Lord of Casterly Rock."

"And more importantly, I am the King's Hand. Thus, my place is here—not at Casterly Rock," Tywin said. "I don't expect to see the Rock again before I die."

"You know what they call me? Kingslayer, Oathbreaker—Man Without Honor. What do you suppose they'll come up with when I break another sacred vow?"

"You won't be breaking anything. There is a precedent to relieve a Kingsguard of his duties. The king will exercise that prerogative."

"I don't want the Rock. I don't want a wife, I don't want children. I don't want anything aside from what I have now."

"And I do not care about what you _want._ The Lannister legacy is about more than what one Lannister wants. You will take a wife, and you will take the Rock. You will populate the Rock with your children, and you will further the Lannister line with your heir."

"And who do you supposed I'll marry? There's no woman worth marrying other than Margaery Tyrell—unless you've arranged me with Lady Olenna. If that's the case, you've really outdone yourself, Father."

"Behind us and the Tyrells, House Hightower is the wealthiest house in Westeros. They can put together more men than any other house—including ours and including the Tyrells. Aside from Margaery, Leyton Hightower has only one granddaughter. Have you met her? She is quite beautiful, I hear."

Jaime blinked. The girl from the gardens? Lady Cassana? Jaime's worst fears were more and more quickly looking like realities. "Cassana Hightower?"

"So you have met her?"

"I just did, but I'm not interested in marrying _her._ She's just a girl—"

"Yes, she's fifteen."

"Seven Hells, I could be her father!"

"There have been greater age differences in the history of the marriages in the royal court, Jaime. Sansa is only fourteen and she'll be wed to Tyrion within weeks. You should consider yourself lucky—marrying such a pretty girl. You could be marrying a Frey girl… Even though I would never give you to one of that swine's daughters…"

Jaime stood, looking out the window beneath which the chest sat open. "And what if I say no?"

"I don't remember asking a question."

"When would the wedding be?" Jaime asked, using the conditional "would" as though he had a choice in the matter.

"Before the king's wedding. Within several weeks, I suppose."

* * *

 _Two weeks later_

Cersei was livid, in spite of the fact that she wouldn't cast Jaime a second glance. Jaime watched a new fire burn in the blacks of her eyes whenever she caught site of Cassana. Jaime nearly wanted to jump off the nearest cliff when Cersei had invited both him and Cassana into her chambers for an evening drink for—what she called—"familial bonding." On the other hand, Jaime was beginning to hope Cersei's jealousy would allow him into her bed. So far, however, that had not been the case. The gear that hid in Jaime's abdomen was winding up slowly, and soon it would surely shatter into a million pieces. He supposed he had his wedding night to look forward to for that matter, but he didn't know how to feel about deflowering such a young woman. The only woman he had ever been with was Cersei, and when he'd had her at Cassana's age he had also been that age.

Cassana sat like a good little girl on one of the emerald chaise longues in Cersei's chambers. Jaime remembered the night when Cersei and him had made love in that very spot. What would happen is Cassana found out about them? Had she heard the rumors?

Cassana knew how to drink, at least—much unlike her little friend, Sansa Stark, who never drank more than a cup of wine.

"Joffrey tells me you studied alchemy with your aunt in the Hightower, is that right?" Cersei asked Cassana after a considerable length of silence. Jaime sat on his own seat between the two women. The air was static.

"I did. My Aunt Malora has spent many years studying the sciences in the Hightower."

"Many years going mad, I've heard," Cersei muttered into her wine glass. And like a good little girl, Cassana stayed quiet. "Speaking of—Joffrey quite likes you."

"I am very pleased to hear so. Our king is the most pleasant and honorable of men."

Jaime couldn't stop from rolling his eyes. Cassana caught him and an gentle blush rose to her rounded, clear cheeks.

"It is good my brother has found an _honorable_ bride himself," Cersei looked into her wine glass. "No flowers of Highgarden ever climbed up your pretty little skirt?"

Cassana's eyes opened widely, revealing the pearly pool her green eyes sat in. In honest, Jaime was a bit surprised by Cassana's behavior; perhaps she had been seriously scorned by Lady Olenna after she spoke to Jaime of his golden hand with such cunning. Ever since then, Cassana had behaved in a manner much similar to those of the mindless girls in the gardens; she was polite, docile, ladylike, and rather one-dimensional. As the days counted down to his wedding, Jaime dreaded the event more and more.

"My virtue remains intact, your grace," Cassana answered quietly.

"Splendid," Cersei chuckled. "And you also get along with Tyrion, as well?"

"I quite like Tyrion, your grace. He is clever."

"If that's what you want to call it," Cersei laughed. "You seem to get along with everyone, don't you? Tommen has been raving about your dancing lessons since your arrival, Lady Sansa is always on your arm, that Dornishman discusses potions with you, Tyrion drinks and reads with you, Margaery loves you more than her own brother, the poor think you are the Mother incarnate, and even my father speaks of you as though you were his own daughter. So tell me—how do you make the whole world love you?"

Jaime had not yet made the realization his quick-witted sister had made; everyone did love Cassana. Well, neither him nor Cersei loved her… But it seemed every person and their brother had a deep-rooted adoration for his bride-to-be, and he couldn't see why. Every time he saw her she was on some noblewoman's arm behaving as properly as she should have; and yet, Tyrion loved her? Joffrey loved her? His father loved her? Prince Oberyn loved her? There had to be a limit to her far-reaching idolization. Did it end with him and Cersei?

Cassana drew a deep breath and took another sip of wine. Her eyes lit minutely; Jaime figured his sister didn't see it—but he did. "I suppose I'm just agreeable."

Cersei laughed, taking another languid drink. "You're just agreeable?"

"I suppose so, your grace."

"And who taught your to be so agreeable?"

"I did."

"Jaime, do you find your betrothed agreeable?" Cersei asked, directing her attention back to her brother. A ravenous look alit her brilliant irises—a look that Jaime had been waiting for for a long time. Had her jealousy finally surmounted her frigidity?

"Yes," Jaime answered hastily. At this point, he couldn't wait for Cassana to leave the room; he wanted Cersei to himself.

"I don't seem to share your affections yet, brother. Perhaps Cassana and I should spend some more time together, so I can find out what makes her so agreeable. But not tonight; I grow tired. Jaime, could you escort Cassana?"

Cassana looked up with wide eyes, but then quickly put down her wine. She was clearly desperate to leave—as desperate to leave as Jaime was desperate for her to leave. However, Cassana curtsied immaculately for Cersei before leaving.

"It was a pleasure, your grace," she spoke before turning toward the door. Jaime placed his hand intentionally on the small of her back whilst guiding her out; he knew it would set Cersei ablaze. He was a bit shocked to discover a maidenly blush had not risen to her cheeks; her statuesque front remained stoic as ever.

"Goodnight, my lady. I count down the hours to our wedding day," he lied gallantly. He expected a response from her, but he only heard the sound of her heels clicking against the hard floor.

And before he turned around he saw a malicious smile on her fair skin and delicate jaw; she laughed mockingly and loudly asked: "Really?" Before turning the corner.


End file.
